TCB
I saved E’s life Saturday afternoon. We were headed into the mall via the Macy’s entrance, and a little ol’ lady in a big ol’ Buick nearly ran him down. I grabbed him by the shirt and yanked him out of the way, because she didn’t look like she was going to stop. In fact, she didn’t look like she saw him at all. He was annoyed at her not slowing down, as we had the right of way, and assumed that she would see him eventually and stop as we crossed from cars to curb. She never did. I don’t think she saw either of us, prior to, during, or after the near-death experience.
It rattled me at the time, and I think it did E, too, because he thanked me for yanking him instead of being peeved as he normally might’ve been at my “overreaction.” We made our circuit of the mall, and I forgot about it until we walked back out the door we’d come in, and then it hit me.
“Jesus! She could’ve killed you! Right in front of me!” It really was that close. My heart pounds just thinking about it, even though we’re both now safe at home.
I have become paranoid about E, for obvious and recent reasons. Not because he’s reckless. Indeed, he’s safety personified, and I needn’t worry about his actions. It’s everybody else that scares the shit out of me, including 80-year-olds who should’ve surrendered their driver’s licenses a good 2 decades ago. It is because he is careful and punctual that I start worrying sooner rather than later. If he’s later than he said he’d be, I worry. He came home 15 minutes later from work (which is 10 minutes away) than when he said he’d be home one afternoon. This was during the week we found out about A, and I spent those 15 minutes with horrible images of car accidents in my head, and was a wreck when he finally came in the door. I worry about the lightning on The Hill when they walk during monsoon season. I worry because I love him, I want him to stick around a long time, and because I know if anything happened to him, my best friend for the last 15+ years, there would be no survivors. Not a second time.
Which brings us today, which will find the two of us at the Medical Center all morning, and who knows how much of the afternoon, as E has his gall bladder removed. They throw around words like “quick” and “routine” and “fast recovery,” but I cannot help but worry about him. He worries, too. Certainty is a fairytale neither of us believes anymore, if we ever did. He had to sign a waiver that said if they get in and find they can’t do it laparoscopically, they’ll do it the old-fashioned way, which, instead of a week’s recovery, is 6-8 weeks of extra painful recovery. I imagine he had to sign a lot of waivers I don’t even want to think about.
I’ll be there before, wait during, and be in the recovery room after. I have 7 hours vacation time left, and no sick time, but have received approval from my boss to take what time I need to be his post-op nurse. When he had his tonsils out 5 years ago, his doctor, whom we’ve since found out was a total moron, told us it was “minor,” and he’d be right as rain in no time. I had a business trip for our company, and while I told him I’d cancel it, E said to go. Turns out, it wasn’t minor for a 31-year-old to have a tonsillectomy, and he shouldn’t have been home alone for a week, and I was sick with worry when I found out how bad a shape he was in, and I was stuck in Florida. I informed my boss that I wasn’t going to do that again; they could give me unpaid leave if they had to, under the FMLA. I will be there for him. End of discussion. My boss wisely went the understanding route.
So please keep a good thought for E, if you would: no surprises, no complications, no delays in recovery. I need him. And we really could do with something going just as it’s supposed to right about now.